


the door of a heart that no longer exists

by Dialux



Series: the memory of things becomes the reality of things [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ...how many characters can i shove into as small of a fic?, Everyone's Grumpy And Hopeful At The Same Time, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: “No, she is not in the Halls.” Finrod’s lips twitch. “Nor under the stars, nor in Manwë’s domain; she is not in the woods, and not in the water, and not beneath the earth, and not partaking of food. But she is not dead.”“A riddle indeed!” says Elrond, frowning.[Gathering the House of Finwë under one roof for a conversation always ends in an argument. Finrod supposes he should count his blessings; nobody's been punched in the face this time.]
Relationships: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto & Turgon of Gondolin
Series: the memory of things becomes the reality of things [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104989
Kudos: 31





	the door of a heart that no longer exists

**Author's Note:**

> An extended scene of the family conversation that leads to Finrod sending Celegorm and Aredhel to find Findis.

“Who’s left?” asks Fingolfin, very flatly.

It is not that he  _ wants  _ Fëanor back, or so Finrod is fairly certain; it is more that he wants someone to shout at back in his sight. There are unnumbered griefs that his uncle wishes to lay at his brother’s door, and he will lay them, but only when Fëanor’s in sight again. 

The Noldor are not all of a single mind, but the Valar did not ask that of them. They only asked that everyone be  _ consulted.  _ Anyhow, there is a reason why the House of Finwë is finally united. It has been a very long time since Fëanor’s death: any further healing that Fëanor must do can be done alive, surely, where their family can at least move beyond the unanswered wounds left by his flight.

“We’ve tracked down everyone,” replies Finarfin. “Any Vanya with a drop of Noldo blood. Any Teleri with a Noldo ancestor.” He pauses, and then continues, “There’s even been a messaging system set up! Between Middle-Earth and Aman! I’ve spoken to  _ everyone.  _ Unless they want to talk about honorary Noldor now, and maybe people married into it, and then  _ their  _ families, but that would mean-”

“No,” says Finrod slowly. 

It’s a large gathering: Fingolfin, Fingolfin’s family; Finarfin, Finarfin’s family; Maedhros and his brothers and his mother. There are younger members as well, people that would not have been included before leaving for Middle-Earth: Idril, and Elwing, and Elrond and Elrond’s sons. Maeglin is there, and so are Gil-Galad and Finduilas. They all turn to look at him.

They had been so cheerful this morning, and now they are… strangely downcast.

“No, we haven’t spoken to everyone, have we?” He stands, and comes up to the registers that they’ve been poring over endlessly. “We haven’t spoken to Aunt Findis.”

For a long moment, nobody says anything. 

Elrond breaks it by saying, carefully, “I thought she had passed?”

“No, she is not in the Halls.” Finrod’s lips twitch. “Nor under the stars, nor in Manwë’s domain; she is not in the woods, and not in the water, and not beneath the earth, and not partaking of food. But she is not dead.”

“A riddle indeed!” says Elrond, frowning.

“One that thousands of years of children have tried to solve,” says Finarfin. He smiles sardonically, but the edge to it does not soothe Finrod even a little. “Nerdanel says that she might not be in the Halls because she is not dead, but not living either; she has passed into the wind, and the stars, and the rain.” He swallows. “As the old elves did, before we arrived in Aman. I am afraid… there is nothing left of Findis.”

“If that were true, would not the Valar know?” asks Elwing.

“No,” says Nerdanel. “Or- perhaps. I do not know.”

“I think they would,” says Finrod. His heart is buzzing, the words- the ideas- coalescing. “Perhaps she would not have entered the Halls, but they would know that we cannot reach her. They aren’t asking for those people lost on the first trek to Aman, are they?”

“You don’t mean,” says Lalwen, staring. 

But she is smiling, and there are others in their family- Fingon, and Anairë, and Maglor- who are starting to smile as well, the joy infectious, the hope unstoppable. If Findis is alive- if they think she is alive- if the Valar think she is alive…

“It could be impossible,” says Nerdanel. “Perhaps they wished to set us an impossible task.”

“I don’t think so,” says Fingon, folding his arms over his chest. “At least, I don’t think they’d want to keep Fëanor in their sights forever. Namo told me once that he couldn’t send any Maia to him any longer, for fear that Fëanor would cause another uprising.”

“How many has he  _ caused?”  _ asks Elrohir, sounding equal parts horrified and fascinated.

“Four, last I heard,” says Maedhros, shrugging out of stillness and tapping the table. “The second was the most successful. By the fourth, I think he was just trying to occupy his mind.”

“It’s a form of torture,” agrees Curufin. “Having nothing to do but think on your mistakes for thousands of years.”

“Would it be thousands of years,” asks Turgon sweetly, “if you Fëanorians weren’t all so bull-headed?” 

“You’re one to talk,” snaps Celegorm.

“Oh, you don’t get to tell me I’m not-”

“Turgon,” says Finrod wearily. “Why  _ are  _ you here, if not to get Fëanor back?”

“I’m not saying I don’t want him back,” says Turgon. He takes in everyone’s looks of disbelief- polite in some cases, like Idril and Elrond- and decidedly not in others, like Celegorm and Curufin. “I do! I have a lot I want to discuss with Fëanor! And- and we all know that he was much better at controlling  _ them  _ than Maedhros ever was, and as long as they’re back I’d like to have them on as good of a leash as possible!”

_ Oh, Turgon,  _ groans Finrod. 

Death hadn’t changed him very much- it had dulled Turgon’s tongue, maybe, if one’s very generous, but the effect of him just not thinking around the Fëanorians has never changed. They bring out the worst in him and he brings out the worst in them, and it’s a never-ending cycle.

“I’ll show you a leash,” snarls Curufin, and Celegorm’s smiling with enough sharp, furious glee to leave Finrod in a cold sweat, and Maedhros looks just about irritated enough with Turgon to let them do whatever horrible thing they’re planning in their devious minds.

“Enough,” snaps Fingolfin, and they all subside. “This isn’t getting anywhere. We’ll reconvene in the morning- when tempers are cooled.  _ All  _ tempers.” The glare he sends towards Turgon is about twice as heavy as the one that he levels at Curufin, but Finrod has a feeling that’s because Fingolfin just knows that they’re not going to heed it rather than true anger at his son.

“Yes,” says Fingon, and is echoed in turn by Maedhros, and the meeting breaks up.

Finrod takes the confusion of the moment to collar Celegorm.  _ We need to talk,  _ he says, as loudly as he can through their minds.

Celegorm says nothing in return, but he also doesn’t stalk away in a high dudgeon. Under the circumstances, the purposeful ignorance certainly seems the far better reaction than him blowing up. Finrod lets him go, and then sweeps past Aredhel, one hand brushing her wrist, and tells her the same message.

Only then does he leave. 

He’s got work to do, if the rest of his family isn’t willing to do it.


End file.
